Thanksgiving is of course an arbitrary day plucked from all the rest to celebrate a specious and historically inaccurate event.
It is also a harvest festival, and a time to celebrate those gifts that we fail to actively acknowledge. One of the greatest for me is the liberation from home and hearth.
I left my country of origin on purpose; I didn’t want to, but it was harder to stay. History and politics are complicated. I appreciate and sincerely love the place I grew up, and all that implies, good and bad, without feeling any fealty to the landscape or those who created me.
I may never again have the option of an extended family Thanksgiving; my mother visits for a month every year and I go to see her whenever possible, but it rarely matches public holidays.
This does not mean that I ignore the traditions altogether, it just means I replace them with a truthful equivalent.
For the last seven years my Thanksgiving centered on dinner with friends (originally just Stella and Al), building up through the years to massive feasting. Last year I hosted thirty or more adults and an unknown number of teenagers and children.
Since the day itself has no meaning I always throw my party on a nearby weekend to coax Londoners and other scattered people to attend, and this year I won’t even begin preparation until December.
When I ask the assembled expats what they are thankful for, do you know what the most common reply is? Health care.
Beyond that, of course, we celebrate friends and family, the active experience of creating community, making food, talk and laughter, the sheer genius of everyday life.
Happy Thanksgiving to those who choose to celebrate!